


Come Home, Come Home, Come Home

by DarkShadows_EvilMind



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Coming Out, Coping, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Past Character Death, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Richie Tozier Deserves Nice Things, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier's Problematic Sense of Humor, Richie has Pretty Much Every Kind of Trauma Possible, Sad Gay Richie Tozier, Secret Relationship, Self-Acceptance, Self-Esteem Issues, Soft Richie Tozier, Steve Covall is A Good Significant Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29914536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadows_EvilMind/pseuds/DarkShadows_EvilMind
Summary: After everything that happened in Derry, Richie has at least one place he can call home: His partner. His rock. His dirty little secret. Theotherlove of his life that no one knew existed. His manager, Steve. And after everything that happened in Derry, Richie was never living in fear again. He couldn't risk losing another person he loved.Things could change.Hecould change. Richie Tozier could be free.All he had to do was speak, and he'd been told a time or two that he was pretty good at talking.
Relationships: Steve Covall/Richie Tozier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Like most of my works lately, I don't know why I wrote this. The plot fairies have been visiting me when I try to sleep and sticking ideas in my head that won't go away until I type them up. So, tonight's installment is "Richie Tozier has someone to come home to after Derry, but no one knows it" ft. Richie Tozier finally deals with being gay, and accepts that it's okay. 
> 
> Meanwhile, poor Steve's heart is in a vise and he's just trying not to fall apart. We love that for him.
> 
> Despite how heavy it sounds, Richie is still here to add some levity to this shit. Let me know what you think! I hope you'll enjoy!

Steve wasn’t exactly _un_ used to his partner’s impulsivity. If Richie got a harebrained idea in his head, he ran with it—always. Steve was just clutching onto his coattails, along for the ride most times. Most times, too, his crazy impulses brought him fame and fortune. Why _wouldn’t_ he crash that party? Why _wouldn’t_ he just join the network director at his table after a sarcastic invite? 

Things that shouldn’t work for anyone—things that should _bankrupt_ a man—worked wonders for Richie Tozier. It was as if he were untouchable. He had this cockiness and swagger that could draw anyone in close to him.

But never too close. Richie never let anyone too close to him… Except Steve.

And even then, it felt like there were miles of ocean between them sometimes. Richie was as unreachable and unattainable to Steve as he was everyone else, even sitting beside him on the couch in the beach house they shared. Steve had his own apartment, Richie had a penthouse—a very nice one—in LA. But, most of the time, they were together at the beach house with Mowgli. 

Mowgli was Richie’s dog—a big lab-looking guy with an underbite that made him Instagram famous. Everyone loved Richie’s slobbery, funny-looking dog. Of course they did. He found it on the street, a scrappy injured puppy limping around trash bags that were piled up by a dumpster outside a bar. 

Steve told him to leave it alone, not go near it—could have rabies, could have anything under the sun. Richie, though, very seldom took no for an answer. He took off his four hundred dollar sports coat, wrapped up the stinking, bloody creature in it, and they were off to the vet. If there was something that could be wrong with a dog, Mowgli had it. 

Was it eight grand or twelve that Richie spent on that dog in its first year? Steve couldn’t remember… Richie shared updates online constantly. This man who loved privacy, who hardly let anything _true_ slip out about his personal life, posted pictures on Instagram and his Twitter of Mowgli, tracking his recovery. Mowgli, at maybe the year and a half mark, had gotten too aggressive when playing a bit into Richie’s arm. Richie had to get something like ten stitches and a round of antibiotics, and he shared that with the caption “Can take the dog off the street, but you can’t take the street out of the dog. Never coming in through the window again!” He told the story as though he’d locked himself out and broke a window to get inside and Mowgli attacked. 

What actually happened was Richie tried to take the tug toy back and Mowgli didn’t want to let go, but no one (Richie included) cared for that side of the story. They liked the Good Boy guard dog who was too “Derpy” to realize the “intruder” was his owner.

People fucking _adored_ it. Richie was on the cover of pet magazines over rescuing that stupid, smelly thing. 

It was like every thing he did made him richer. Every stone he turned was hiding gold underneath. 

Mowgli was a good dog. Didn’t chew things, didn’t shit in the house, but he was Richie’s dog at the end of the day—even if Steve was the one always stuck looking after him. 

And here he was, looking after Mowgli while Richie went on another harebrained adventure that would probably end with a pot of fucking gold even though the rainbow he was chasing was pitch black. He had somewhere he needed to be. 

That was all he’d say. That was all he’d tell Steve to say to anyone who asked why he needed to cancel or reschedule and “undetermined” number of dates. 

“Will you be back for Sacramento?”

No reply.

“Will you be back for Vegas?”

No reply.

“Will you be back for Reno?”

No reply.

“We have THREE dates in Reno.”

No reply. 

Steve didn’t understand what happened. He was fine one moment. He was in the green room chuckling at stories one of his openers was telling him, drinking just a little because the night was still young. He had the sparkle in his eye that Steve had really fallen for all those years ago. He was just so _alive._ He was always happy when he was performing—like he knew it was his calling, what he was born for, and that he was good at it.

Then his phone rang and it...changed. His whole face went pale. 

If it weren’t for the fact that both Richie’s parents were dead and gone, Steve would’ve thought he’d gotten a text saying one of them passed. Someone must’ve passed, but Richie didn’t get _close_ to anyone else. 

Richie answered the call, his hands shaking—whole body shaking as he got up from the couch and made his way out of the room.

“Yeah—Hey, man. How long’s it been?” As he brushed past Steve, he could hear another man talking. “Is that right?” A nervous laugh. “Well, I was asking inches, but years works, too.” Another nervous laugh and he was gone down one of the dim corridors, hunching up against the wall with one ear plugged. 

He looked so afraid. Steve had never seen him so afraid… So _outwardly_ afraid. Anything he felt, he did. Buried. He hid love just as much as he hid pain and fear and insecurity. To see him shaking against that wall filled Steve to brim with terror. 

“Dude, you think it’s the mob?” The opener asked, peeking around the corner of the greenroom to look at Richie. 

“No! Of course it’s not the fucking mob!” Steve snapped, shooing the man away. 

Was it the mob? Did someone loan him something that he needed to pay back? A favor? Did Richie Tozier make a deal with the fucking devil and now he was calling to collect? He was sure acting like it…

He went on stage and he froze. He hadn’t ever really frozen like that before. He’d been so drunk he forgot his set, but never...frozen. He’d bombed for the first time in his career. It was in the media, too, chasing Richie wherever he’d gone. Fans were dissatisfied. Some demanded money back it was _that_ bad. 

Steve, for what it was worth, tried comforting after the show but Richie wouldn’t hear of it. He was still a shaking, twitchy mess in the car back to the hotel. He wouldn’t look at Steve. He’d hardly _talk_ to Steve except to say, “That was fucked. This is so _fucked._ I’m _fucked!”_ Again and again and again.

“I wish you’d just tell me who was on the phone,” Steve said as they rode the elevator up to their room. Richie hadn’t answered. 

Mowgli was in their hotel room, tended to throughout the day by one of Richie’s PAs. Richie didn’t give him any attention either, and that was how Steve knew something was really, _really_ wrong. That and the fact that Richie immediately started packing a bag. 

They had a fight worthy of a Rom-Com at that point. Richie always said their fights were like something scripted in a shitty Rom-Com. Fights over nothing, fights that made no sense. Everything to Richie was a joke. Even Steve’s heartbreak at being walked out on—not just by his client, but his partner, too. 

Steve tried to play keep-away with Richie’s bag, then started digging clothes out of it and flinging them across the room. They shouted at each other, Mowgli howled in distress and frustration, Richie was bellowing in a voice Steve had never heard from him before—all anger and fear and pain. 

“I have to leave! I have to _be somewhere!_ Let me go! Just _let me go!”_

Finally, Steve had thrown his completely unpacked and empty bag at his head and stormed away from him, locking himself up in the bathroom. He didn’t know why it got to him as much as it did, hearing Richie tell him to let him go… It felt to him like Richie was asking for more than to be allowed to disappear after a bad set. It sounded like a break-up and Steve couldn’t handle that.

With every beat of his sad, twisted heart, he loved Richie Tozier—shitty jokes, immature humor, impulsive recklessness and all. He loved Richie. He didn’t _want_ to let him go. But Steve was a smart man—or at least he’d like to think so—and he knew that going against Richie was like railing against God. He’d lose every time. 

So, Steve got himself together and came out of the bathroom to find Richie with his bag all repacked, standing next to the bed and staring at it. Mowgli was laying on the bed with his head on his front paws next to the bag like he was pleading to go, too. 

“I’ll look after Mowgli while you’re gone,” Steve said, trying to keep his voice even. “Can I at least know where you’re going? So I can...check the weather where you are?”

Richie finally let out a laugh—or a wheeze of one anyway—and wiped his hair off his forehead. 

“Maine. I’m going to Maine.”

“Well, Maine is huge. Where in Maine?” 

“Does it matter?” A low sigh. 

“Of course it does. Just because it’s sunny in Bangor doesn’t mean it’s not raining in—”

“Let’s just say Bangor, then.”

“Rich… You’re scaring me. What is it? Why do you have to go? Who called?”

“I just… There’s something I have to do. I can’t explain it. I’m sorry. But I have to go. And it’s not you. It’s not your fault. I just...I have to be somewhere. And you can’t come with me.”

“Is it the mob?” Steve asked, only half joking.

“The mob would be better… No. I don’t need you worrying about it, and I _don’t_ need you following me. Do you understand me? Do _not_ follow me.”

“Then… Then just promise me you’re coming back.” 

He didn’t answer that. Steve felt a part of himself dying as he looked into Richie’s eyes and saw no reassurance. No promises. No, ‘I’ll try.’ No nothing… Richie stared at him like he already knew he wouldn’t be back. Steve wanted to plead with him. He wanted to beg Richie not to do this, not to go—not to hurt himself or whatever it was he had planned. 

“Don’t do this to me,” Steve said. “Don’t do this to me, Rich. Please.”

“I have to go.” He pulled away when Steve tried to touch him. 

“Richie—”

“Don’t follow me.” He started to leave and, like a pathetic lover in a Rom-Com, Steve grabbed him by the strap of his bag.

“Don’t you walk out on me,” he said, as forceful as he could manage with a heart made of glass prepared to shatter. “You don’t walk out on me without saying goodbye.” Steve probably shouldn’t have done it, but Richie wasn’t the only one who got have his way. Richie wasn’t the only person on the planet with needs and wants that deserved to be met. 

Steve held Richie hostage by the strap of the bag he wasn’t about to let go of and leaned up for a kiss. It hurt when Richie tried to pull away before their lips could meet, but Steve didn’t let up. He leaned in more until his lips pressed against Richie’s—rough and dry. It took a few more rough pecks before Richie finally, finally caved and kissed back, his hand coming to rest on Steve’s neck, his thumb tracing Steve’s jaw the way he liked. 

“It’s not you,” Richie said, lips still so close to Steve’s. “I promise this isn’t about you.”

“Just say you’ll come back,” Steve whispered. It was all he wanted to hear. 

And Richie wouldn’t give it to him. 

As soon as his flight landed in Maine, he went dark. It was as if he went into another dimension. There was a blip of a media article about Richie Tozier being spotted at an airport in Maine and that was it. That was the end of it. Steve had the peace of mind that his plane didn’t crash, but everything else after that was a sickening black pit of worry and grief.

For some reason...while Richie was gone, Steve started to feel like he’d never been there to begin with. 

He’d look at Mowgli and wonder, “Why is that here?” Then the shame would come. “That’s Richie’s dog! My partner!” Was their relationship that weak? They spent years together, basically lived together in their private little world, and not even two days apart and Steve was forgetting who he was? He remembered Richie the client, but Richie the partner was...fading. 

Maybe it was stress. Maybe it was a coping mechanism—that he was using work as a way to avoid the fact that it was his partner not answering his texts and not just his client. Even so, Steve couldn’t shake the sick feeling—even if he forgot what it was he was missing. 

He took countless phone calls, made countless phone calls, all in the name of excusing Richie from his appearances and commitments and trying to reschedule for other times. Could he confirm that Richie would be in Reno in three days? No… Could he confirm if Richie needed to cut down to just one show this month in Reno instead of the three? No, he couldn’t. What about the radio shows? The local TV appearances? The charity drive? 

No. There were many things he couldn’t answer. 

There was so much he didn’t have answers to…

It was a position he’d never been in before, and none of his friends or mentors could help him. Most of the time, clients didn’t disappear for no good reason—or without a reason for why. Everyone wanted to say it was drugs. Everyone wanted to joke that it was the mafia. 

People who _didn’t_ know implied Richie had knocked a woman up and was hiding from her, or going to her to convince her to have it “taken care of” or pay her off. Steve knew Richie had slept with a woman since ‘08 or ‘09. Now, another _man,_ that he could’ve believed. But that wouldn’t explain why he’d looked so afraid.

Day after day, Steve started to force himself to become comfortable with the idea that he would never know—that he might never see Richie again or have the answers he sought. Richie, he began to think, had probably gone somewhere and died. 

Maybe that was what that fading feeling was… Maybe Richie’s soul was just no longer on this earth and Steve’s could sense that he was gone while still pleading for him to come home. 

Just come home. Come _home!_

He’d never ask Richie to come out again. He’d never ask to make their relationship public again. He’d never make allusions to marriage or starting a family ever, ever again if Richie could just _come home._

How horrible that was to go through alone. The secret was kept so well, he had hardly any friends he could go to or confide in. He had his mother who would probably rather not hear about it, his sister who felt just about the same or would spout off ‘good riddance to old rubbish’ because she hated Richie as a man even more than she did as Steve’s partner. Steve just felt so _alone._

So, after four days with no answers, he was sitting up by himself wrapped in a red fleece blanket that smelled like a tad bit like his lost partner, drinking herbal tea and watching bad TV to distract himself from how empty it all was. A character without a script… That was how he felt. A man on a stage with no part, no role...nothing. Without Richie, he felt like nothing. 

He watched the lovers on the screen bicker with each other in the rain, feeling cold and jealous while Mowgli slept on the couch beside him—slobbering all over the leather seat. He was back at his apartment, unable to handle the beach house with all of the reminders of his lost happiness in every room. He’d taken only what he needed out of the cabinets and drawers. Most of his stuff and a lot of Mowgli’s. 

Tonight, Steve was coming to terms with the idea that Richie was never coming back and Steve would never be going to stay with him at the beach house ever again. 

And then Mowgli’s head snapped up from the cushion a moment before a soft tapping sounded on the door. Immediately, Mowgli bolted for it, barking his loud and vicious bark—probably waking up all the neighbors in the process. He jumped onto the door, pounding into it and scratching it with his claws, still howling and barking. 

Steve left the blanket on the couch and slowly followed after the dog, thinking to himself he might need to grab a weapon before he got too close. If it was an intruder, they probably bolted at the sound of the dog, but you could never be too safe. No normal guest was coming to his apartment at two thirty in the morning on a Wednesday.

He got Mowgli down from the door, though the dog kept snarling and snorting—his gaze fixed on the barrier between him and whoever had knocked. With his hand still hooked in Mowgli’s collar, Steve peered out through the peephole, his heart nearly stopping in his chest as he laid eyes on the man in the dim hall.

Richie. 

All at once, the feelings that had been numbed the past few days came rushing back with full force. Steve wanted to scream and punch the door as much as he wanted to cry—the tears already rushing him and making his vision bleary as he undid the chain and unlocked the door. 

He couldn’t even speak after he got the door open. His eyes landed on Richie and staring was all he felt capable of doing. Mowgli ripped free of his hold and jumped up on his owner, nearly knocking him off his feet in his attempts to lick every inch of Richie’s face. 

He looked so _tired._ He looked as if he’d aged five years… The hallway was dim, but his eyes held no light. No light at all. 

“You weren’t at the house so...I thought I’d check here,” Richie said. No explanation. No greeting. He got Mowgli’s feet on the floor, but didn’t try to come inside once he did. 

“You came to get your dog?” Steve asked, sniffing and crossing his arms over his chest. He was more afraid with Richie here in front of him now than he had been while he was gone. Something _awful_ had happened to him. Something changed him.

“I… You—I came to see you.” Richie’s eyes were tracing the floor, so bloodshot and tired. No jokes. No humor or energy or life. 

“Me?” He was so afraid it was the end of things. Steve took his things from the beach house. Richie was here to take the small few things he had here. It didn’t help the lump that was forming in Steve’s throat, or the twitching of his chin as he tried desperately not to sob like the woman in the film he was watching. 

“I know… I know I was an ass before and I’m… I’m sorry. Can I come in? Just...for a little bit? I don’t have to stay—”

Steve moved back a step into the apartment and gestured for Richie to get inside. Everything about this was wrong. Richie’s tone, his words, his appearance. He was just in sweat clothes. No jeans, no Hawaiian shirt, no jacket. Black sweatpants and a gray hoodie. His glasses were cracked.

His _glasses_ were cracked!

“You didn’t think to get your spares from the beach house?” Steve asked, gesturing to eyes as Richie and Mowgli made their way into the apartment.

“They’re at my place.”

“You didn’t stop there?” 

“I wanted to see you. I only went to the beach house because I thought you’d be there. But you weren’t there...”

“It’s…too big for me to be in on my own.” Steve trailed behind him as Richie made his way to the couch and sank down. Mowgli sat between his feet, panting and wagging his tail while Richie absently scratched him behind the ears with both hands. 

He didn’t smile for Mowgli or tell him he was a good dog or any of the things he usually did when they were reunited after any stint of separation. Richie was just...quiet.

That wasn’t like him at all.

“Did you...get everything taken care of that you needed to?” Steve asked, sitting down with a good bit of space between himself and the other man. In the back of his head, he was still afraid that this was the end—that Richie was so quiet and solemn because he was breaking things off for good and not just out of another paranoid reaction to the press sniffing around his personal life. 

What was he so afraid of? The world wasn’t like it was before. They’d be okay. _He’d_ be okay. But that was an argument they’d had countless times and Steve always lost. The world couldn’t see them for what they actually were. Richie wouldn’t let that happen. He was too afraid to be seen for what he was. Steve was happy just to have him, but it still hurt to be a secret. 

To be _the_ dirty little secret that Richie never wanted to get out… 

“I guess you could say we did...”

“We?” Steve asked, his stomach twisting up. It had been a _man_ on the phone. Not some woman with a ‘little secret’ that needed taken care of.

“Did I… Did I ever tell you about when I was growing up? In Maine?” 

He didn’t. He didn’t talk about his past. Part of that just built up the enigma that was Richie Tozier. It was almost as if he just appeared on the earth one day, fully formed and functional. He talked about college, maybe a bit about high school, but never about childhood or youth outside of the occasional high score at an arcade or an ‘almost getting caught by the parents’ story. 

But he talked now. He talked about a group of friends and a promise he had to keep. He was vague, he always was about that sort of thing, then all at once his head slumped onto Steve’s shoulder and he wept. Steve didn’t really know why. Maybe he was exhausted or just overwhelmed with everything, but even then, Steve had never seen Richie cry.

He had _never_ seen Richie cry. Not drunk tears, not over anything—not ever. 

Any resentment or hard feelings Steve had been harboring for being left on his own faded away. He was so hurt, and he’d known in the beginning that going where he did was going to leave him hurt. Or dead…

Someone was dead. Someone Richie cared very much about was dead. 

“We didn’t save him… They wouldn’t even let me try. He’s still down there. No one’s ever going to find him. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault...” 

“How is it your fault? He… He got hurt. It was an accident, my love. It’s was an accident. You did what you could. I _know_ you. I know you did all you could.”

_“He’s still down there!”_

Steve didn’t understand and slowly he started to realize that, at least tonight, he would never understand. The cops weren’t called. No one reported anything… Richie wouldn’t say exactly what it was they had done that led to an entire structural collapse or why they had to do it after some twenty-seven-year pact. All he could do was hold Richie’s hand, let his own be crushed in Richie’s fist, and soak up his lover’s tears with the shoulder of his shirt.

He was a literal shoulder to cry on…

And, for whatever reason, that thought kept his from crying. 

He let Richie cry it out, thankful when his hand stopped being crushed so Richie could hug him instead. Steve, at least, could hug him back and feel his sense of peace and control coming back. Richie was here. Richie came home to him. He was a little worse for wear, but he was breathing and he wasn’t packing up his things to leave or talking about the end of things. Richie came home to him. Not Mowgli—Steve. 

They never did leave the couch that not. Richie slumped against him and before too long had started falling asleep. Steve, afraid to break the spell, got the blanket out from under them and laid across the couch with Richie on top/beside him. It was a tight fit and it frustrated Mowgli that he couldn’t be involved in the cuddling like he usually was at bedtime, but it worked. Steve got to hold his partner and Richie got to be held when he needed it most. 

By morning, though, they were both aching and sore from it—though Richie was so stiff he could hardly get up to use the bathroom on his own. He showered by himself while Steve took Mowgli out and then made them breakfast and coffee. The shower did him no favors and Richie was still moving with a serious limp Steve didn’t remember from the night before. 

“Did you get hurt?” Steve asked as Richie slowly sank into his chair in the breakfast nook. 

“Well, I fell like ten feet straight onto my back… And I ran, like, half a marathon trying not to die at least four times. I’d say I’m pretty hurt.” 

“I’ll make you an appointment.”

“I don’t need an appointment.”

“Are you kidding me!? At your age? Falling that far and onto your back no less...you could have fractures you don’t even know about. And...don’t get me started. Just don’t get me started.”

“You’re already started,” Richie complained. He always sounded so gruff before he got his first cup of coffee. It was nice to have him acting a little like himself after last night.

“Drink your coffee, love.” Steve set the mug in front of him and pressed a kiss to his temple, let his fingers toy with his damp curls. “Hmm.”

“What?” So tired and agitated.

“You used the bodywash as shampoo again.”

“Does it _fucking matter?_ It’s soap! It’s all fucking soap!”

Steve plucked at his hair a few more times, then hugged him around the shoulders while Richie grumbled and took his first sip of coffee. As Steve started to pull away, Richie’s free hand came up to clasp his arm, holding Steve there with his chin on Richie’s shoulder. He thought Richie would say something, and may he had, too, but he was silent and then let go without a word. Steve took his chances and pressed a fast kiss to Richie’s cheek and then pulled away before he could get snapped at or scolded. 

Surprisingly, neither happened. 

Usually, when he wasn’t horny or sleepy he didn’t care for physical displays of affection. He spurned them as if there was a crowd of onlookers wherever they were—public or private. 

“You must still be tired,” Steve said, making Richie a plate of eggs and turkey sausage with little diced potatoes he’d steamed in a bag. Neither of them cared much for cooking, but Steve at least tried to make meals whereas Richie settled for bowls of cereal or snacks in place of actual food. 

“I can’t eat all that,” Richie said, leaning back from the table as if Steve had set a severed head on his plate. 

“What are you talking about? It’s just sausage and eggs! You liked the little potatoes last time...”

“Yeah, but I haven’t eaten in, like, three days. I’m like the kids from the Holocaust. I’m gonna die if I eat this much.”

“Three days is _not_ the Holocaust! You’re not going to get _Re-Feeding_ Syndrome! You can’t _say_ things like that!”

Steve made himself a plate while Richie argued with him, then fixed his own mug of coffee before sitting down across from his partner in the breakfast nook, giving him dirty looks any chance he could get. 

“What? Why are you staring at me?” Richie’s eyes were on his plate where he was tearing his eggs apart with his fork, making a mess of them and not eating. 

“Eat something.”

“Babe, if I eat, I puke.”

“You’re getting sick because you have no nutrients. _Eat._ Before I take you to the hospital.”

“What, you’re gonna stick me in the psych ward? That’s just fine. I probably belong in the fuckin’ psych ward. I’ll probably be in prison by the end of year...”

“Then eat your breakfast so you don’t go on an empty stomach.” 

“Fine, but I’m gonna puke.”

And he did, not ten minutes after he’d finished his plate. Steve spent the rest of his morning trying to keep Richie hydrated and warm, coaxing him into drinking some of the mixed-berry juice he had in the fridge that he used as a base for smoothies. He could stomach juice and he could handle little yogurt cups, but a full smoothie made him start gagging again. 

In the afternoon, Steve let Richie nap on the couch while he tucked himself away in his office to work. He made calls explaining with ease that Richie had actually taken ill recently and could possibly need hospitalized. It would create a media frenzy and excuse his absences, and would be backed up by a nice doctor visit which Steve also called and scheduled. It wasn’t like Richie was going to have the energy to fight him on going.

For now, the shows could wait. Steve would focus on nursing his lover back to health.

The rest could wait.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up! Richie uses the _other_ F-Word in this one a lot. (But he only says it once.)

_“I don’t deserve you.”_

Richie would think it, over and over and over again, but the words never came out. 

He didn’t quite understand it. Richie was always a talker, but now it was as though the well had dried up. He had nothing to say. He had plenty of meaningful, big thoughts but forming the words to speak them took more effort than he could muster.

Part of it, he knew, was the grief settling in. He’d lost two friends and though he may have not remembered them until just a few days ago, he remembered them now—he grieved for them _now._ Especially Eddie who he saw in nightmares almost every time he slept.

Maybe another part of it was because he’d caught a massive upper respiratory infection and apparently a stomach bug on top of that from the stress of travel and splashing around in sewer water. Steve had made him go to the emergency room after he threw up every meal he was forced to consume in his first two days home. It earned him a forty-eight hour stay in the hospital which somehow excused his absences from his shows and the dates he now had to cancel. 

He posted a horrible selfie to his Instagram account that said only, “Sorry, Reno.” The fans should understand. If not, who cared? 

Who cared?

Whenever he wanted to speak, that was the thought that rushed through his head. Who cares? Why does it matter? 

It felt like nothing mattered anymore, and yet there was Steve—doting on him. He didn’t leave the hospital after Richie was admitted except to get a toiletry bag, his laptops, and their phone chargers. After that, he took up at Richie’s side and made sure he had water and that the hospital staff was treating him well. (They put up with his sad, shitty jokes so Richie didn’t know what more Steve could expect of them, really.)

By the time he finally went home, it was Steve who looked like he was in need of a hospital stay and yet he was still going on and on about Richie letting himself get sick.

“I wish I knew what you thought you were doing splashing around in fucking sewer water. Did you even realize how much bacteria you were exposing yourself to? How many viruses or—or diseases!?”

“Shit... That explains the herpes then.”

“Oh, knock it off! Just knock it off!”

Richie was home now and spent most of his days on the couch in his beach house with Mowgli laying on his chest, slobbering, while Steve took care of everything Richie didn’t have the strength to. 

“And I wish you’d put your phone on _silent_ if you don’t intend to answer it. Who’s calling you all night and day? Can I answer it? Do you _want me_ to answer it for you?”

“You’re not not my receptionist. Just let it go to voicemail.” 

“I’ll answer it and tell them to stop calling you. You need rest! Not someone harassing you.” Steve went to do it, too. He grabbed Richie’s cell phone off the coffee table where it was laying neglected except for when Richie wanted to check the time or take a picture of his dog. Mowgli, at least, was a pleasant distraction from all the pain he was in. He was supposed to start seeing a chiropractor for his spinal injury from the fall he’d taken, but he never made the appointment. He needed his nose to stop being a dripping faucet first. 

“Can you just… Just put it on silent if it’s bugging you. I don’t need you taking my calls for me.”

“Well… Well, who is this _Molly Ringwald_ person? Why does she keep calling you? You have four missed calls from her _today._ Not to mention yesterday. And—Oh, that’s just great. ‘Big’ Bill. Awesome, Rich.” Oh, Jesus Christ. Was he really about to go there?

“Stop being a bitch.”

“A bitch!?” It was too easy to get Steve going. Sometimes it almost felt cruel how easy it was for Richie to read him. Steve loved him so much it was ruining him. Steve loved Richie so much it made him an insecure, crazy mess. But the jealous lover bit never looked good on him. 

“They’re my friends. The ones from when I was a kid. Bill is ‘Big’ Bill because he was taller than all of us. Fuckin’ sucks we met him first. If Ben wasn’t the new kid, it would’ve been funner calling him Big Ben. Better if he was British… I don’t have any British friends. But no. I don’t know about Bill’s dick. Never seen Bill’s dick. Don’t really want to. Not my type.”

“What, ‘cause he’s tall?” Steve asked, turning the ringer off on Richie’s phone and setting it down without digging any further. 

_“Because he’s not you.”_

“He’s too skinny.”

“What!?” 

Too easy…

“Babe, can I get more tissues? My box is empty...” 

“Depends. Can I smash it on your fucking head first? Fuckin’ asshole, motherfucker.” He was bitching all the way to the pantry where the paper goods were kept and back. You could take the boy out of the streets, but you couldn’t take the streets out of the boy—and Steve would always be an angry boy from Chi-Town. (And he would _always_ get angry when Richie referred to it as such.)

For all his angry words, Steve brought him the tissues without making him pay for it with bodily injury and after setting the box down for him on the coffee table, smoothed his cold palm over Richie’s forehead to feel his temperature. 

“You know, finger up my butt works better.”

“My foot up your ass works even better than that…” He sounded tired. All of this had taken such a toll on him, and Richie didn’t deserve to have this man caring for him while he laid around and did nothing to show his gratitude.

When he was feeling better, he’d make things right… At least, he’d try. He’d really try to make things right. He couldn’t lose Steve, too. Not now. 

He couldn’t lose Steve, too. Just the thought made him want to cry.

“What? Hey, hey, hey… Hey, now. It’s alright...” 

Richie closed his eyes so he didn’t have to see how pitiful Steve looked, face all contorted and sad because he was feeling bad for Richie when he didn’t deserve it. He’d left Steve here all alone, knowing deep in his heart he probably wouldn’t be coming back. He left Steve here all alone and immediately fell back in love with someone else—someone he would probably have tried to leave Steve for if he’d been given half a chance.

_“I don’t deserve you.”_

“My love, you’re breaking my heart here. What’s wrong? What is it?” Steve was shooing Mowgli away so he could sit himself on the tiny space left on the couch at Richie’s side to stroke his hair and rub his chest. Richie felt as if he were suffocating, trying hard not to breathe too deeply because he knew he’d just sob like a fool. He _never_ cried. Before all this, he _never_ cried. And especially not in front of Steve or anyone else.

He hid his emotions the way he hid himself. Steve, being as close as he was, got to see behind the Life of the Party and Class Clown persona, but even he wasn’t allowed to see the darkest depths. Except now… Because Richie hadn’t the strength to hold it all back. He couldn’t do it now when he needed to the most. He had friends calling to check on him and he couldn’t answer. He had Steve worried about him and he couldn’t console him. He had fans and venues upset with him and he couldn’t make it right.

One moment he’d had the world and now it was gone. Everything was ruined and filthy and _gone._

Steve pulled him up into a hug, squeezing as tight as he could with his arms while his cheek pressed into the side of Richie’s neck where he nuzzled into him. 

_“I don’t deserve you, but I_ love _you.”_ And he did. He loved him so, so much. He just wished the fear weren’t so strong, that his fear didn’t outweigh his love. He didn’t need to be afraid and he knew it, but he was. Almost more afraid than he was of the clown. He was afraid to be who he was… He was _ashamed_ to be who he was and ashamed of Steve for enabling him. He spent years angry at Steve for enabling him...but he loved him, too. Steve took all the anger, he took the brunt of Richie’s misdirected rage for years. Steve should’ve gathered himself up and left years ago… Richie wouldn’t have blamed him if he did. 

Richie wanted so much just to be able to tell Steve how he felt—how he _actually_ felt. He told him he loved him. Steve knew Richie loved him, but he had no idea how deep it ran. He worried about infidelity, about Richie wanting more but from someone else, about Richie wanting all the things Steve pleaded for but with a different man. He thought he wasn’t good enough. Richie made him feel unworthy and not good enough, and he didn’t see that it was the other way around. Steve had so much to give and to offer and Richie was a bottomless, black pit. He ruined everything he touched. Ill fate followed him like a cloud—chased him. 

Their careers were so interwoven now… If Richie failed, he dragged Steve down with him. If they were outed, Steve was ruined. Richie couldn’t see it going any other way. 

He _wanted_ to give Steve the world. He wanted everything Steve begged for down to the stupid fucking wedding no one would even come to because everyone Steve knew hated Richie’s guts. He wanted a kid, even if he knew he’d just corrupt it. He wanted a family… A life. He wanted to stop hiding, but to do it—to chase that dream—would be to end it. Forever. 

Any kid he adopted would just face the same constant bullying he had—if not worse. Two dads? Kid’s life would be ruined. He’d ruin Steve’s life and some poor, innocent child’s. He wasn’t strong enough to help a child through all of that… And Steve could try, but he’d need the support. Support Richie couldn’t give because he’d know it was his fault for everything.

He wanted what everyone else got to have and it was killing him inside. Steve could have that… Steve could have that with someone else, but Richie was selfishly latched onto him, feeding off his attention like a parasite. 

“I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong. I’m _here._ I’m _right here._ You can tell me. You can tell me, my love.”

But he _couldn’t._ He didn’t have the words. 

A week more at home and he was back on the road, finishing up his pathetic carcass of a tour—playing the part of the funny man on stage and getting great reviews while he remained dead inside. 

Best Yet! The newspapers proclaimed. Back on Track and Better than Before!

It made him sick to read it, so he told Steve to stop bringing the newspapers into their hotel rooms. Steve sulked about it because he liked reading the local papers. It gave him the “flavor of America.” He always said poetic bullshit like that. 

“The flavor of America is its food. If I can’t eat it, I don’t fuckin’ want it in here.”

“There’s more to culture than food, Rich. But if you’ve finally got an appetite, then I’ll ask at the front desk for the best local restaurants.” Steve was convinced that Richie’s poor mood stemmed from the fact that he wasn’t eating enough and that he’d left Mowgli at home with an acquaintance he didn’t himself consider a friend. He just didn’t have the energy to bring him along and argue with hotels and venues and all the noise that came with it. He lost his charisma somewhere down in the cistern and his dog paid the fucking price.

But Mowgli and food weren’t the reason Richie was upset.

“Why bother? They’re just going to tell you the hotel’s five star whatever-the-fuck. And it’s all the goddamned same.”

“I really wish you’d eat something, love. You’ve lost fifteen pounds and your suit looks like shit on you.”

“Suits always look like shit on me. I’m like a giant fucking ape in a dress. _I_ look like shit.”

Steve pouted at that and took a sip from his glass of room service provided orange juice before starting to recite their day’s itinerary. Most of their conversations went something like that. Then they would get in a car, ride to whatever appearance he needed to make, then to the venue for makeup and wardrobe and whatever else. 

He’d get on stage, he’d tell his jokes, he’d drink backstage, Steve would get him home to the hotel and then…

Well, it used to be they made out in the shower and got into bed. Now they argued over who was going to shower first and whoever did was always asleep before the other got into bed. It almost felt lonelier than if he was in a room by himself. At least he wasn’t on a fuckin’ tour bus, though. Those days were hell and he was glad to put it past him. You couldn’t sneak in a private quickie with your dirty little secret on a bus packed with other people. He wasn’t in a rock band. That lifestyle didn’t appeal to him. 

Then, as if reading his mind as he lay in the bed, restless after Steve woke him up while getting up to take a piss, Steve came back to bed and mumbled, “We should take an RV next tour. You and me. We can do it like a road trip. Plan some extra gaps so we can visit the Grand Canyon. I’ve always wanted to go there. It isn’t feasible forever, but just one year? I think it’d be fun.”

“Mm-hmm. Except I’m a shitty driver and _technically_ not legally permitted to drive after dark.” It was true. He was blind as fuck and it said so right on the back of his license. 

“Stupid idea,” Steve muttered then, like he was upset at himself for mentioning it—like Richie had gone and crushed all his dreams. It left Richie with a knife in his chest, twisting more and more until he cried out:

“Why don’t we just take a vacation? I’m done after this tour. I don’t want to plan another one… Let’s just get an RV and go somewhere. We’ll go somewhere together with nowhere else to be.”

Too easy. Always was. 

Steve rolled over to face him, all the life breathed back into him at one small offer. You would’ve thought they’d never taken a cruise together, or flown to Hawaii for a week, or took weekend trips up the coast. They’d done all those things… But it was never enough. It was _always_ in secret, and always with discretion. Their trip to New Orleans together the year prior had left Richie anxious and sick to his stomach the whole time—afraid they’d be photographed in the daylight because Steve didn’t like the nightlife. Too many drunk tourists, he said. He wanted to see the architecture and the “culture” and the real nature of the city. 

The real nature of the city was its fucking nightlife, but what did Richie know? He’d just been afraid to be photographed and spent their whole week-long getaway looking over his shoulder for paparazzi that wasn’t there. 

Maybe that’s what it was. His big ego. He thought all eyes were on him always and that just wasn’t the case. He wasn’t the fucking Queen of England. 

“I’m not the fucking Queen of England...” Somehow, the thought was like a tiny piece of the puzzle that clicked.

“What? I said there’s a place in Iowa where you can see a waterfall? I’ve always wanted to go there… What are _you_ talking about?” Steve sounded irritated, because he knew his partner hadn’t been listening to him go on his excited little tangent about nature’s miracles and what ones he’d like to see on their RV trip next summer.

“I’m not the Queen of England,” Richie unhelpfully repeated, then turned his head on the pillow to kiss Steve between the eyes. 

Tomorrow, he told himself. 

Tomorrow (or later today since it was after two a.m.) he was going to try. He would be a little more himself when he wasn’t on stage and a little less Frat Boy Comic Richie Tozier. 

And he was. 

A tiny bit.

“Do you want to grab coffee with me before the radio thing?” Richie asked Steve while they were both standing in the bathroom, crowding the mirror and trying to shave. Steve hated it whenever Richie did that, which only made Richie itch to do it more.

“Coffee? Yeah. Sure! Or if you need it, I can send your PA—”

“No. I want us to get coffee.”

“Why? Do we need to talk?” He sounded worried and he looked worried, pausing with his razor still to his cheek. 

“A man can’t get just go get coffee with his partner? It has to be for a fight?”

“I didn’t say a _fight!_ Who said anything about fighting? I just asked if you wanted to talk.”

“I’m talking right now and I’m telling you I wanted to take you to get coffee.”

“So let’s get a fucking coffee! Why do you have to make it so dramatic? Why can’t you just say, ‘Hey, Steve, let’s swing by Starbucks before we go to the radio station’? Why Do you have to make it fucking weird!?” 

Their coffee date was not nearly as climactic as Richie had worked himself up into believing it would be in his head, but two days later when nothing in the world’s media popped up about him standing in line at a coffee shop in St. Louis with his hand on another man’s shoulder, he felt a little more comfortable with himself. He wasn’t the Queen of England and no one really cared who he was or where he put his hands. 

That didn’t, however, mean he wasn’t constantly scrolling through the internet looking at gossip columns and fan pages to see if anyone had seen—if anyone knew or had an idea or an inkling. Whenever he would search “Richie Tozier Gay” all he found were people insulting him and his brand of comedy. No one knew… No one suspected. 

He was okay.

After St. Louis came Milwaukee, and after that came Cincinnati and then Pittsburgh. After Pittsburgh, Richie had a week off and he and Steve were back at the beach house with Mowgli—in their own slice of paradise. Or what used to feel like paradise. 

Everything was different now. It was as if all the silence Richie used to find so peaceful was now filled up with bad memories and noise. He could hear that clown laughing… He could hear Eddie saying his name. He could hear the roar of Neibolt collapsing in on itself and burying Eddie in a pile of trash and rubble where no one would ever find him.

Richie had Googled him one night and shot dead his vain hope that maybe, by some miracle, Eddie had made it out or was at least found. Instead, all he got was a missing person’s report and articles. All so reminiscent of the missing kids posters that haunted his childhood. 

If he told someone Eddie was under there, would they even _try_ to dig him out?

In a fit, or maybe just in a moment of weakness, Richie asked Steve that very question and his partner, quite reasonably, told him no. They would not. Not if he was down that deep. He said he was sorry, but that it was the truth. They weren’t going to find him in the tunnels under Derry that Steve believed Richie and his friends had been (for matters of life and death that were never really explained) exploring. It would cost millions to excavate, and even then he might still never be found because Neibolt wasn’t a straight shot to Hell where Eddie and the Losers had ended up. Richie didn’t _know_ where Eddie’s body was and they’d probably never find it even if he sank his small fortune into digging every last square foot of Derry up.

Let go, that was what Steve was asking him to do. Richie wished it could ever be that easy… Let go? He’d sink. He’d drown in all the noise if he he tried to block it out.

“My love, I was thinking...” Steve came up behind him, hugging him around the waist while Richie stared out at the beach. “Why don’t you and me...freshen up and head out for drinks? It’s been so long since we did that. There’s a new tapas place that just opened up. The reviews say their mojitos are to die for.”

“Mojitos?”

“Mm-hmm.” 

“Okay. Yeah, sure. I could get down for mojitos at a topless place.”

_“Tapas!_ I said a _tapas_ place!”

“Yes, Hon. I heard you. A topless place. You want to go see titties at the topless place. I’ll go get a shower so my stink doesn’t scare off the dancers.”

“I know you heard me, you asshole,” Steve hissed at him as he went. 

Things like showering—things that had always been automatic, maybe speckled with off-key singing or random thoughts whirring around until he came up with a good joke—now felt mechanical. Wash face. Check. Use shampoo so Steve didn’t bitch...eh, maybe tomorrow. Wash his neck, his chest, his pits, his crack. Feet if he’d spent all day in shoes. He was about to get out of the shower after going through that very routine, then thought again—he thought of Steve trying to make things work and plan little dates for them to go on that wouldn’t look too suspicious. Mojitos at a tapas restaurant was gay as fuck, but it could also look like business if you wore the right thing. Richie could wear his usual getup, but Steve was probably in their bedroom right now putting on one of his expensive suits.

It was what they always did before… Steve was trying so hard to make things like they were before while still acknowledging that things had changed. 

_“I never deserved him...”_

Richie sighed, turned the water up a little hotter, and started again. He cleaned inside and around his ears, and the back of his neck. He scrubbed his shoulders and his arms and his back as best he could, washed his dick a little better and maybe gave his ass some more attention, too. Who knew. Maybe he’d get lucky later… Maybe he’d get drunk and finally let Steve get some action later. He could try. 

He washed his legs and ankles, picking at a sore he had on the back of his calf that he hadn’t noticed before. Bug bite? Mosquitos and mojitos… He could do something with that maybe. He’d try. Not everything that glittered was gold. 

Finally, he put just enough shampoo in his hair to get the scent in so Steve would be happy with him.

He dried off and stared at himself with partially fogged glasses in a partially fogged mirror wondering if he should shave or not. 

Should. 

Definitely should. 

“Look like you give a shit, you fucking pussy,” he hissed at his reflection. Nothing was happening, but he doubted so much that his time with Steve was everlasting—he felt the end was close, even if Steve was acting like everything was fine. For no real reason at all, Richie began to fear that if he didn’t act and act now, he would lose it forever.

Lose Eddie, lose Steve. 

Lose everything. 

He didn’t want to let go…

He had to try.

He was going to try. 

He was going to do more than put his hand on Steve’s shoulder in line at a coffee shop. He could do it. He could _do_ it. He wasn’t the fucking Queen of England and _no one_ would fucking notice. He could be a goddamned, motherfucking partner to his boyfriend of almost ten fucking years. He was _going_ to do it. 

Who else did he have left to disappoint anyway? 

It wasn’t like he could make his father ashamed now. The man was dead. His mother was dead. Everyone who mattered apart from Steve was fucking _dead._

He was going to go out and hold his fucking boyfriend’s hand!

The thought alone left him dry-heaving into the toilet while Mowgli scratched at the bathroom door. Steve must’ve called for him because he ran off barking a moment or two later. Or some beach-goer got a little too close to the house. He sounded like he was in guard mode. Good boy… 

Richie stood up from the floor after his unsuccessful attempt at puking, then rinsed his mouth as if he had puked anyway. After that, he went to get dressed while Steve worked on getting Mowgli quieted down. 

It was as he was starting to get dressed that Richie realized he hadn’t heard Steve’s laugh in a while. It struck him seemingly out of nowhere, but maybe it was just his instincts coming through. He was a comedian. People around him were supposed to laugh. 

Steve deserved a good laugh more than anyone, but he was a little too close to the source material for the joke of Richie’s life to be comical to him. So, Richie grasped at straws and came up with something else.

He had an old Hooter’s t-shirt he very seldom wore and put it on with a bright ketchup and mustard red and yellow Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned over it. And that was it. 

He started down the stairs and called out to Steve just as he reached the bottom and did his best to look casual and not laugh at his own absurd predicament—just a couple of shirts on with his dick out, floppy and free. Maybe it’d get him some pre-drink loving. It’d been a while since they’d done that, too.

“Hey, Hon? I know you said the topless place, but I like this outfit better. What do you thi—”

He didn’t even have time to react. He didn’t even have the _capacity_ to react. He rounded the doorway into his living room expecting to see Steve sitting on the couch with Mowgli or maybe standing by the big picture windows so he didn’t wrinkle his suit. Instead, he came to find the surviving members of the Losers Club staring back at him. With his cock out. Full display.

Finally, his brain snapped back into gear and his hands flew to cover his crotch—both hands going in for the effort while Steve (also seeming to have just recalled the soul to his body) grabbed the throw blanket off their couch and rushed over to him. 

“Melinda left about a half hour ago, Rich. Right about when I got here. Said something about her mother? Guess your topless bar is gonna have to wait,” Steve said, his eyes looking so pained and frantic all at the same time. He was hurt that their date was canceled and afraid for Richie because he’d just about outed himself to the only friends he had. Friends from the same podunk town where faggots like him got beat to death and chucked into the river. “Your, uh, friends are here. You didn’t mention you had appointments today. Usually those are made through me. I would’ve rescheduled...our meeting. Which you forgot about… Because you were about to go to a fucking topless bar with Melinda.” If the Losers could see Steve’s face, the ruse would be for nothing. It was already pretty bad as it was, too.

He had a shitty fucking poker face when he was actually scared. 

“Fuck.” That was the only word that would come out. Behind Steve, Beverly was still standing with her hands over her mouth—face redder than her hair. 

“Why don’t—Why don’t you go put on some pants?” Steve said.

“This, uh… This sheds a whole new light on the old ‘caught with your pants down’ thing, huh, guys?” Richie said, gears slowly turning to piece things together. “Though if you like the view, I guess I could always shed some light on my ho—”

“Okay, Trashmouth. You’re done. Go get dressed,” Bill said, shaking his head violently and waving Richie away. “Go get dressed.”

Steve also seemed to agree with that sentiment and began turning Richie around by his shoulders and gave him a good push through the doorway. As he was awkwardly stumbling away toward the stairs, he heard Beverly call to him from the living room.

“It was nice seeing you!”

“What, are you heading out?” Richie asked, turning back around because what else could he do? Keep running like a coward and make the whole situation even worse?

“No! Not at all,” she said, smiling at him in her wicked way. Oh, Jesus. This day had really gone to shit. “It was nice seeing you’re not _all_ talk.”

Richie didn’t have to be looking at Steve to feel the indignation and jealousy coming off him in waves. If he were a better man, maybe he would’ve done something about that instead of feeding into Beverly’s wit. 

“Well, if you’re wanting to stick around for the action—”

“Go get dressed!” Bill yelled, cutting off the exchange. His face was dark red in embarrassment, too. Poor Ben was just staring up at the ceiling like he was hoping Scotty would beam him up to get him out of this situation. As for Mike, he was just awkwardly sitting on the couch, hunched over and petting Mowgli like he didn’t see what was happening at all. 

Eh, Mike was Black. Seeing a big dick was nothing new to him anyway.

Steve was turning Richie around again and pushing him toward the stairs—a lot more forceful this time. 

“Did you know they were going to be here?” He hissed, voice low.

“If I did, would I have come down with my dick out?” 

“I don’t fucking know. But make sure you remember all the pictures this time when you come downstairs. I’m not having a repeat of last April.” 

It was standard procedure when guests came over to hide the pictures Richie had of them together. There weren’t a lot, but there were enough to make things hard to explain. Best friends didn’t even stand that close together for a photo in Hawaii let alone managers and clients.

Richie found himself growing shaky as he got dressed. Steve was upset. His friends had just seen his dick. He needed to hide about three more photographs if Steve had gotten to the two in the living room… 

But that was where the thought trailed off.

This was his oasis. The beach house was where he came to be with Steve. This was _their_ home… 

It was Losers that needed to go, not his photographs. He didn’t know how they found him (probably the same way Mike Hanlon had gotten his personal cell number, however the fuck that was) and really wished they hadn’t. He brought it on himself though, hadn’t he? Ignoring their phone calls and texts as they tried to check in on him from afar. He summoned them here…

But they were still as uninvited in his life as Mike Hanlon was when he made that call all those weeks ago. Months ago…

Richie didn’t even remember these assholes six months ago. He should have no problem forgetting them all again if they decided he was too much of a fucking pervert loser to be in their stupid make-believe club. 

Now he just wished he had the courage to back that notion up. 

He was still shaking as made his way back downstairs, and it only grew worse with each photo he passed without grabbing and tucking. 

Not gonna do it. He was not gonna do it. This was _his_ house. It was _his_ house where he came to be with Steve, and he wasn’t going to hide him like some fucking dirty little secret when Steve was the best goddamned person in the world. He deserved better, and goddamnit Richie was going to give him better!

“So is this like an intervention or something? ‘Cause I don’t remember sending out invites to the Losers’ Reunion. In fact, I don’t remember giving any of you my address,” Richie said, trying to be stern but not directly an asshole. He deserved some answers, right? They did just barge in.

“Well, that’s Mikey here. He’s good at research,” Bill said, clapping Mike on the shoulder. 

They were _everywhere._ The Losers were taking up all his seats leaving Steve standing awkwardly by the fireplace looking like he wanted to leave. 

He couldn’t go. If he left, he wasn’t coming back. Richie didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. It was probably wrong, but it was his greatest fear on earth now that the clown was dead. He didn’t want to be alone.

“You applied for a building permit in twenty-eleven. Permits are public record,” Mike said, still petting Mowgli like the outcast at a house party. “That’s also how I got your phone number.”

“Well that’s the last time we’re applying for a fuckin’ permit,” Richie said. 

“You and Melinda?” Beverly asked, that wicked grin still on her face. 

She _knew._ She fucking _knew._ He could see it in her eyes—that sparkle. And it was just a matter of time before the others did, too, and it made him so fucking afraid. 

These people were his only chance outside of Steve to have a normal life… Everyone else had been cut out, kept at a distance. He never felt a _connection_ with anyone like he did the Losers. If they rejected him… He wanted to say it would change nothing, but it would eat him away like cancer until there was nothing left. 

“Did you guys want coffee? Tea? Anything?” Steve asked, making the situation ten times worse by speaking up. 

“Coffee’d be great,” Bill said, looking thankful that someone had offered—not suspicious and not devious like Beverly. Ben looked a little like a kicked puppy, maybe because he realized he wasn’t in on some joke Beverly had going on and he felt left out. Mike was still just petting Richie’s dog and Mowgli was loving every minute of it. 

“I’d like some coffee,” Beverly agreed, which got Ben to agree and then Mike who nodded and finally looked at Richie again.

“’s a nice dog you have here.”

“Yeah! Yeah, that’s Mowgli,” Richie said, fading seamlessly into his rescue story as he came to stand across from the couch while Steve went off to get coffee and regain his composure which had been rapidly slipping more and more by the second. While he talked though, Richie was rehearsing something else in his mind.

What he _needed_ to say. Rip it off like a band-aid. Just say it. Just tell them. Beverly didn’t seem to care. She worked in fashion. She was surrounded by homos. At least he’d still have her. And probably Ben, too, because he wasn’t about to defy her. He’d still have Beverly.

_“I’m a faggot. Steve’s my partner.”_

_“I’m a faggot. Steve’s my partner.”_

_“I’m a fucking faggot, and Steve’s my fucking partner.”_

_“I’m gay and that’s my boyfriend?”_

No. He was a faggot and Steve was his partner and if they didn’t like it they could all just get the fuck out.

“So… This Melinda person…?” Bill said, smiling at Richie like he was eager for more—while Beverly was grinning like a fucking ax-wielding psychopath. 

“Uh, yeah… Yeah, Melinda…”

_“I’m a faggot. Steve’s my partner.”_

“You been seeing each other long?” 

Richie kept glancing from Bill to Beverly to Mike who looked proud of him like a parent would. Did Steve come up with some stupid “Fiancee Melinda” on the fly? He played up the image of a big dick playboy and since the dick part was now confirmed, the second half might have more substance. It wouldn’t make sense for them to assume some chick he was supposedly taking to a topless bar was of significance. Steve probably said fiancee. Shit. 

“Uh… No. Not—Melinda. No,” Richie said, looking down and clearing his throat.

“No?” Bill asked, getting a shake of the head from Richie. “Guess that’s why we didn’t hear about her in Derry.” And Bill leaned back against the couch casually, like he guessed story time was over. Nothing new here, Richie was just a womanizer with a new flavor every week. 

_“I’m a faggot.”_ No need to drag Steve into it, right?

“Anything else been going on? You haven’t answered anyone’s calls. We all got...sort of worried,” Ben said, looking to Richie with that sad puppy look. 

_Was_ this an intervention?

“Uh… No. Not really.” He was sweating bullets and they could all tell something was off. Except Bev. Bev fucking knew. 

Oh, God. Beverly fucking knew. It was only a matter of time. 

Just spit it out! _Spit it out!_

_“I’m a faggot! Steve’s my partner. I’m a faggot; Steve’s my partner. I’m a fucking faggot. I’mafaggotSteve’smypartner!”_

He was gonna say it! He could feel it swelling up inside him. He was going to say it! He’d _finally_ fucking say it out loud!

_“I’m a faggot! Steve’s my partner!”_

And then Steve was coming back into the room with carefully balanced and clutched together mugs of coffee and what ended up coming out of Richie’s mouth instead was: 

“Steve’s a faggot.”

Richie felt the mortification rush through him. He would’ve rather his friends walk in on him fucking his ass with a goddamned vegetable than have that come out of his mouth. Steve just looked shocked and then crushed, his shoulders starting to slump for a moment until he heard the spatter of coffee spilling on the floor and it broke the spell. 

Beverly was jumping up from the couch to help empty his hands, so of course Ben followed while Richie stood there staring like a moron—trying to figure out what the hell he’d just done.

Steve’s eyes locked with his, fiery and full of hurt. He was starting to open his mouth, probably to spout off something that would sound like a joke to the Losers but wasn’t one at all to Richie. If he got those words out, it was done. That was the one word Steve did not like to hear—especially not directed at himself. Richie had essentially told Steve he hated his fucking guts in a room full of strangers.

So, before he could spit out the words that would end up shooting Richie through the heart, Richie managed to beat him to the punch and loudly (awkwardly) proclaimed, “And I am, too!” Better, but not quite right. “We’re… I’m—I’m fucking him,” he added, feeling it all tumbling out with the elegance of a man tumbling down the Up escalator at a shopping center. “Or...he’s fucking me. That’s...usually how that works.”

Everyone was quiet. Even Mowgli was quiet, probably able to feel how uncomfortable everybody just got. 

“We’re… We’re still working on the press release,” Steve said, voice strangled and small. 

“Well, I see why he doesn’t write his own material,” Beverly agreed, nodding a little as she set down the mugs of coffee. 

“I’ll be right back with some cream-er… Richie, did you want to...kitchen. Now?” Steve said, being so careful not to say any unsavory buzzwords like ‘cream’ or ‘come with me.’ 

“No… No, I’m going to stay right here.”

“And think about what you did?” Beverly offered, tone that of a disappointed mother. 

“Mm-hmm.” He was staring at the coffee table, not able to face whatever look these people were giving him. 

“So… My question is,” Bill started, pausing only long enough to realize Richie wasn’t going to look at him, “were you _actually_ going to a topless bar?”

“We were going to get mojitos… There’s a tapas place on Spring Street...”

“It’s not anywhere _near_ Spring Street,” Steve said, reemerging with a carton of a half-and-half, some spoons, and their box of sugar. Richie forced himself to look up at him, still feeling that sick terror coursing through him. The _one_ thing he should never have said came tumbling out. He _never_ would’ve directed something like that at him on purpose. Steve had to know that.

He _had_ to. 

Richie was trying to _fix_ things, not ruin them. Steve knew that, right? Steve knew that… 

He looked absolutely unamused, but no longer hurt and no longer mad. Thank fuck for his patient heart because Richie would’ve gone for the drain cleaner if he blurted that out and lost his partner for it. And yet his heart was still racing like he’d just survived a car crash.

“So how long have you two been together then?” Bill asked, looking to Steve because Richie was still reinstalling his internal operating system after that fucking crash.

“Uh… Let’s see. It’ll be nine years in April.”

“Nine years!?” Beverly whisper-shouted, directed at Richie who shrugged.

“He’s been my manager for, like, twelve. It’s easy to hide when you have an excuse to be together all the time,” Richie offered. “Get to drag him all over the country with me. Make sure he doesn’t get the chance to meet someone else.”

“Blink twice if you need help, Steve,” Beverly said, finished making up her cup of coffee and now leaning back all smug and comfortable on Richie’s couch. 

“Do I need to blink? You can’t just help me?”

His operating system still not quite at the half-way mark, allowed Richie to blurt out, “I didn’t mean to call you a faggot.” Not ideal timing, but he needed to say it. He needed Steve to know. He needed to _fix this_ before it got _worse._

Maybe the drain cleaner wasn’t such a bad option. Everything he said just seemed to make it all worse.

“I…” For a moment, it sounded like Steve was about to say something tender, then he (with his fully functioning brain) decided against it instead. “It was kind of obvious. You looked like you shit yourself when you realized you said it.” He coupled this with a firm squeeze on Richie’s shoulder. “You want coffee?”

Slowly, Richie nodded, still feeling Steve’s hand on his shoulder long after he’d pulled away to return to the kitchen. 

“You know,” Beverly said, scooting to the edge of her seat on the couch and leaning over to be closer to Richie who stood uncomfortable across from her, “someone should tell him it’s pretty obvious that something’s up when you see him chuck a handful of picture frames into your stack of DVDs.”

“That’s what those were?” Ben said, brow furrowed. “I thought they were magazines or something.”

“They were picture frames! Which begs the question...” She looked to Richie again, that devilish look flashing in her eyes a moment before she burst from her seat on the couch. “Pictures of _what?”_

“Well, you already saw my nudes so maybe—maybe just _don’t.”_

Steve, drawn in by the commotion, was back in the doorway looking like he wanted tell someone off but not sure who. Mowgli had chased Beverly when she ran, but hadn’t jumped on her yet so he couldn’t serve as an outlet. Instead, the poor man had to awkwardly retreat when he realized no one needed saving. 

Richie loved him. He really, really loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading! I'm really happy that you seem to be liking Steve's character :) I wanted to make him feel like his own little person, but we all know he's a subconscious Eddie stand-in in Richie's life. That doesn't mean he _is_ Eddie, though, so he's going to have his own little quirks. I like to think of him as a grouchy little firecracker who missed his calling as a travel journalist and somehow got stuck managing Richie's wild ass (in more ways than one). He's a French Bulldog who thinks he's a Great Dane, but anyone who's been bitten by a small dog knows they're sometimes worse. That's Steve-y boy!
> 
> I hope this chapter didn't disappoint!


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